Recovery
by teceraca
Summary: How Robin handles her stresses.


"You guys go on ahead, I'll stay and cover the tab with some rations fund. Good work today."

Celebratory ale wanders away in soldiers' bellies and blood, while the mugs remain behind with Robin. She'll pay, as promised, but it's only an excuse. Sipping and cradling what's left of her drink, she revels in an acrid flavor which _isn't_ rent flesh and ashes tainting her mouth. She's the hero of the day - and don't get her wrong, she feels like it. With all those men and women who just sang pub songs full of life, now headed safely to their tents.

But to some she is still a villain.

The scene plays over and over in war. Commander to Commander, the rivals battle while their men watch on while holding the line. Most understand it as tradition borne of fairness: the best fighting the best to eliminate needless casualties of hopeless melee. But it is also one of respect. A soldier has family and friends to feel the loss; a General down means an entire battalion mourns, an entire region. Only someone of equal standing - _equal risk_ , should fully engage. It falls to Chrom or herself to take the final strike. To take that responsibility _and_ that blame.

She doesn't regret. She'll bloody her sword within someone's throat again, leaving them gargling as they try to give out one last order; fry their heart with thunder again, until it races so fast it explodes from their chest and she's left picking out bits of ribcage from her coat threads for a week. She will, with no mercy and no remorse, if it keeps the same from happening to her own. If it means one more step towards peace for Chrom's kingdom.

 _If it means someone else doesn't have to._

She allows herself these nights, these in-betweens, when the battle is over, and temporary safety has been won, and there is nothing more worth doing until dawn ...than to recover. A tavern is a different type of battlefield, but none the less predictable or formulaic. As always, Robin has a plan, and ways to read the situation if she's focused.

Phase one.  
The last dregs of her drink trickle down her throat, and the stein hits the tabletop a bit harder than it needs to. A hollow slam which sounds just above the white noise of other conversation, able to catch attention.

Phase two.  
One layer of clothing removed and bundled beside her. Bare arms _reaaach_ out behind a physique now easily seen as quite lean, and the bit of cleavage allowed by her strappy top juts up and out. A shake of her head bears out the tension of the stretch, and gives blonde twintails a flirty flounce. By the time she sits proper and sighs, she's caught nine pairs of male eyes.

Phase three.  
One man's flick back to his wife. Two more wear rings. Three are turned off or intimidated by visible scars. One is a wingman trying to urge on another who hesitates. ...And one has already slid into the bench next to her.

Phase four.  
It is the farmhand in a foliage-stained white shirt and apron-like tunic covering blotched olive skin, a working man's cushioned muscles, and a jawline that probably cracks a dozen eggs every morning. Nice. Actually, between the way thick, dark bangs barely brush over hazel irises and how the sweat and dust on his clothes suddenly entices her with an equally earthy scent (the kind of grime unsullied by death, the kind which grows things), an alcohol induced reminder of how delightful it is to have a handsome someone close says, _Very Nice._

Anyway, he seems honest.

"You look like you could use another round," his brow raises in genuine sympathy; it's cute.

"You look like you want to buy it for me."

"Gladly, beautiful lady."

He orders two hard ciders. In his twisting to grab and pass hers over, she notices an apple blossom stuck to the brass rivet securing his right pocket. -Not a farmhand, an orchardist. She now remembers passing the trees on the march here. So the workers come to the local vendors and order end products of their own crop to help boost sales, and therefore continued patronage...? Clever. She plucks the bloom, lifts red-veined white petals to spin across his chin. "Aren't you a right sweet bit'a fruit?"

Robin's always found herself weak for the type of hearty chuckle he offers (or perhaps that sudden faintness flows from how he takes the excuse to gloss calloused fingers across her wrist), "I bet you're sweeter."

Phase five.  
Smile and accept the flattery. Listen to him talk about himself while drinks are drunk. With each ounce down, inch a little closer in blissful bleariness, touch and fall over him a little more.

Okay, that last step wasn't detailed on the agenda. It just happens.

Her nose picks it up now, the apple aroma amid greens and dirt. As if he's worked so long picking and hauling bushels around that they're stained upon his being. A craving kicks in. Like teasing fruit across her lips, she can feel taught skin against her mouth, a slippery, smooth surface beneath her tongue. She bites down with gentle relish, and a muted hiss changes that apple image at the back of her mind into the reality of his neck. Hmm... he's delicious. The hand settled on her thigh begins to grip.

"Should we take this outside?" he asks (tone admirably aloof for how the rest of him squirms), and she snickers under her breath. She's only ever heard that phrase in context of _fighting_ , but oh ho, for scant reprieve in her life's work - this is not. This is quite the opposite. A happy enough remembrance in the moment which causes her to damn even as much decorum as a cheap inn, and she stands, grabbing up her items and guiding him by the hand towards a rear door.

She's lost track of the phases.

Not as crucial to keep tally for this mission. Indeed, the very objective is to dig herself dizzy in indulgence. All she cares, with her back pressed to brick, is that it must be reaching the finale. All she counts are the kisses form sundried lips crashing all over her face (Blame it on the cider, but his tongue tastes like apples, too). All she has to worry about holding up are her own legs as he lifts them. All she has resting in her hands tonight is this singular man's shoulders; ones strong enough to carry his own weight, and surely hers too.

 _Gods, please just get there soon._ She squeezes at deltoids from under short sleeves, divots forming beneath trimmed nails. The action doesn't release nearly enough of the mounting desire in her body yet.

(She's rather used to be being in control, and yet, here - in a dark, dank back alley, where no one cares who she is or where she comes from, where she can hide her sins and her marks and more scars, where she doesn't even have to look this stranger in the face to get what she wants from him - there's solace to be found in the bitter biting of her lip, when she braces herself against the building, and the voices in her head screaming _compliant whore_ drown out the shrill whisper of _murderer_.)

It's all over just soon enough, evidence from both of them all over the ground.

He holds her, caresses her arms and sides, head buried in her hair, while they collect themselves and a better respiratory rate. This semblance of companionship is unexpected and uncomfortable. Robin switches to face him again, and he tries to make a moment out of looking in her eyes. If only she knew of a word that meant both 'thank you' and 'you're welcome' at the same time, she would offer it, but even in her extensive reading, she'd not found one yet. Lingering another minute is all she can do, if that's what he wants.

She'll be gone, marching to the next town again in two days. It is the only reason she can get away with the rare occasions for something like this. No reputation to be soiled among shepherds when tents aren't shared, nor rumors spread around townsfolk when they don't know her face. No strings, no drama. No one finds out.

So once they're dressed, and Robin is pulling her cloak back over her body, and he asks, still kindly, "Can I get your name, lovely?"

Her boot heels leave a solemn clack against the cobblestone as she walks away.

"No."

She makes her way back to camp on legs still wobbly from the decrescendo of her climax and barely waxing sobriety. When she reaches her cot, she knows there is work to do in the morning and more battles to plan for. At least, _tonight_ she flops over, satisfied by a full day of endeavors. And she will sleep.

 _Soundly._


End file.
